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As a woman of a certain age, I am pretty confident that not only do I know who I am, but I own who I am. The good, the bad and the indifferent. Though I’ve written about my personal choices for the enlightenment of others for years, I own I am a deeply private person who chooses with intention to whom I will expose myself. Though I make myself available to love, I own I am most content when left alone. Though I have fed my insatiable wanderlust with a collection of passport stamps and privileged opportunities all over the world, I own that I value the comfort of a steady income and a stable sister circle of black women who accept my type of crazy. Like any gemini, I am layer on top of layer. And for decades, I have peeled back each, ending up here: at peace and in love with the woman who I began becoming somewhere in my late teens.

To be clear: writing the book is not what brought me to the epiphany that there were still more layers to unravel. Writing the book came pretty easy. It felt so much like breathing that I had a decent first draft in under a year.

It has only been these last few months leading up to publication that it has occurred to me I underestimated how much I do not enjoy inauthentic interactions. How much social media feels like one massive inauthentic interaction, even when you are being your authentic self.

I do not like to expose myself unless I can control who sees me. Unless I get to craft how they see me.

Because it is 2019 and I am a new author, social media interactions seem to be a requirement if I want anyone other than my mama and homegirls to buy my book (and my mama expects a free copy). I have been playing around on Facebook for about a decade. I became acquainted with Instagram and Twitter through my messing around with Facebook, but had only really given them cursory attention until my publicity manager made me cozy up more to these tedious little sites. I never thought of these platforms as tools for anything other than…well, playing around whenever I felt like going outside.

This is what I discovered when I was told “Use social media way more than you already do.” I am an inside kid. I have always been an inside kid. I was not one of those adventurers who eagerly awaited the day in summer camp when we went hiking or camping or some other such outdoorsy activity that was meant to challenge city kids to go beyond their comfort zones. I relished arts and crafts day when campers stayed inside in an air conditioned facility and expressed themselves on their own time and in their own space unless they felt inclined to invite in others. Apparently, these outdoorsy activities must happen on and off line a lot if I am ever to become known enough to get an email from Toni Morrison inviting me to her house for lunch.

What promoting this book has taught me is though a gregarious extrovert, I am not a person who likes to be seen. I wrote a book. In that book, I showed you Keturah. I said, “Hey, here I go with some thoughts and tings. Okay, bye.” I truly do not understand why people would now want me to show more of myself in order to get to know the woman who wrote the book. She. Is. In. The. Book. I get little satisfaction from showing more, actually. I will do it (on my own terms) because I know it is necessary. However, there is a significant part of me that finds it counterintuitive. Such exposure does not come naturally to me.

Shortly after going outside online, people started inviting me outside in real life, too. “Can you moderate a panel on women’s day?” “Can I ask you a few questions about traveling abroad, being unmarried, etc.?” “We want to feature you in this storytelling series.” It was these opportunities to promote myself that forced me to see it wasn’t just social media I found exhausting. It was being seen. It was being asked questions I didn’t particularly want to answer. It was being outside. Period.

At 44, I am forced to own: I have an intense need to control every aspect of my life. I wrote a book. I told people what I wanted to tell them in that book. And now, these people want me to tell them other stuff? But, why? I said what I said. Now, I’d like to take my many strips of colorful twine and construct my friendship bracelet quietly over here in the corner, please. Just come get me when it’s snack time.

I suppose I should be happy that there are still parts of me I don’t know know. This means I won’t run out of self improvement goals any time soon. I should also be grateful for the invitations to play outside. This must mean people like what I have to say when I get up on my soapbox. They must enjoy what is seen when I choose to show myself.

I have decided not to wait for the day when I will enjoy this process myself. Because I doubt that day will ever come. What I will do is own that it requires me to stretch myself in ways that I wouldn’t have had to had I not written this book.

Thursday, the camp counselor says we are going to some place far away and will do something called hiking and then practice pitching a tent or some such. I have chosen not to fake like I’m sick Wednesday afternoon. I will get on the bus Thursday morning. That is all I can promise to do.